Page 59 of The Sniper

Holstein’s face flashed behind my eyes—grinning, high, oblivious to the end—and I wondered if he’d even known what he’d stepped into.

Didn’t matter.

He’d pulled the trigger, taken her dad, and now he was gone, just another body in a life full of them.

But this wasn’t over.

Department 77 was out there, pulling strings, playing games with lives—mine, hers, her dad’s—and I’d burn their world down before I let them touch her again.

I got out, slammed the door, and headed inside, the Hall’s bulk swallowing me whole.

The stairs silent under my boots, each step heavier than the last, the paper in my pocket a reminder of the shit I’d waded into.

Didn’t know what came next—didn’t know how to tell her, if I’d tell her, how to carry this without breaking her more.

But I’d figure it out.

I always did.

And when I found them—when I had their throats under my hands—they’d wish they’d never heard my name.

Because this wasn’t just a kill anymore.

It was personal.

And I’d make it hurt.

17

HALLIE MAE

It was the next morning. The first sunny one we’d had in days.

Golden light spilled through the window of my apartment, pooling on the hardwood floor like it had been waiting for its turn to come back. It made everything look warmer than it felt. Brighter, cleaner, like the world hadn’t just tilted sideways and shattered.

I didn’t move at first. Just lay there, eyes open, head turned toward the window, letting the sunlight stretch long across the bed. It should’ve felt like hope.

It didn’t. Not exactly.

It felt like the world was trying to move on without me. Like the sky had decided enough was enough, and I was the only one who hadn’t gotten the message.

Daddy’s funeral would happen soon. Charles said he’d take care of everything—the arrangements, the order of service, even the pallbearers. Said I needed to rest. Said Mama would need me soon enough.

But I didn’t know what rest looked like anymore. I didn’t know what I looked like anymore.

So I didn’t call Noah.

Not because I didn’t want to. I did—so badly it almost burned. I wanted to hear his voice again. Low. Steady. That anchor in the middle of all this drifting. But I didn’t want to seem needy, either.

Too clingy. Too much.

I didn’t know what we were now, or what yesterday had made us. And I was too raw to ask.

So instead, I got up.

Pulled on a soft sundress with tiny blue flowers and slipped my sandals on without thinking. My movements felt quiet. Careful. Like I was afraid to disturb the fragile balance between grief and whatever came after. I packed a canvas bag with a half-finished novel and a bottle of water, then grabbed my keys before I could talk myself out of it.

I drove toward Isle of Palms, windows down, warm air curling through the car. It was early still, the world not quite awake, the roads soft with morning light. The marshes shimmered gold and green, and for a second—just one—it almost felt like the Lowcountry hadn’t changed at all.

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